


Reinforcement

by TolkienGirl



Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [283]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aredhel is solid as a rock, Father and daughter, Fingolfin is stressed about Fingon's tell-all plan, Gen, Interlude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:14:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25797241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: “What are you saying?”“All that I can, Aredhel.”
Relationships: Aredhel & Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë, Aredhel & Fingon | Findekáno, Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë & Fingon | Findekáno
Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [283]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1300685
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	Reinforcement

“Are you sleeping here tonight, Papa?”

He nods, the bedroll clasped awkwardly in his arms. “As your cousin improves, he prefers relative solitude at night. We needn’t crowd him, Fingon says.”

Fingon’s word might as well be sacred scripture. Aredhel does not argue; she takes the blankets and arranges them as comfortably as she can in a corner where the fire will warm but not suffocate. Her father has not spent _every_ night in the sickroom, but his schedule is still erratic, as far as she and Turgon are concerned. Both he and Fingon orbit around Maedhros, in the hidden universe of the hallowed sickroom.

Maedhros has been conscious for—it is _weeks_ , now, but Aredhel has not yet spoken to him.

She bites her tongue, considering that.

Father washes his face and drinks the tea that Aredhel brings him. Weariness hangs about him like a cloak, but not as heavily as it sometimes does. She is immediately covetous of this moment, during which she can sit on the flagstones beside him, too well aware that this passing time slips through her hands like water.

He smiles at her, almost sadly.

“You look a little tired,” he says. “Have you been working yourself too hard?”

Aredhel shrugs. “Not hard enough, judging by the standard upheld by the rest of you. Celegorm and I have hunted—Galadriel and I keep busy. Nothing more or less.”

He nods his assent to this; there is no criticism in his gaze. “I am glad for it—especially for your friendship with your cousin. But do not hold yourself to Fingon’s flame, my love. I am ever begging him to rest a _little_ , to slow his pace a _little_.”

“You had better apply to Wachiwi, to coax him,” Aredhel suggests, rather slyly, sipping at her own tin mug.

Father’s eyebrows leap. “You have noticed—that, too?”

“I do believe everyone has noticed _that_ , save Fingon.”

“I…to think that you children might find happiness and new life here! It would be the greatest joy I can imagine.” He sets down his empty cup. “If we can achieve security—if we can trust to safety and the rule of law—I hope that Turgon may, before long, fetch Elenwe and little Idril to join us. I know that their absence beats at his heart every day.”

Aredhel does not want to take away his hope, so she is silent. He sees this, and shakes his head.

“I know. It is a gossamer dream, daughter. Turgon builds up a wall, rather than venturing outside it. Finrod counsels that we should prepare ourselves, lest we are waylaid at these very gates. And your poor cousin is the sharpest proof of all that there is anything but justice, in this territory.”

Every word he says is true. That is what grieves her; to hear him speak truth.

“Yet we are safe for now,” she says, yearning for Fingon’s indomitable hope, if not quite his unquenchable fire. “Safe tonight. And there is…there is more harmony than I dared expect, between us and our kin. Between us and their friends, here at Mithrim. That’s due to your good guidance, Father.”

He shuts his eyes, as if he prays. Then he says, very quietly indeed,

“I cannot pride myself on that. I do not even lead _astray_ , exactly, as much as I do not lead.”

“That isn’t so!” Aredhel is affronted. “Father, Uncle Feanor isn’t here to denigrate you. Don’t speak so ill of yourself.”

It was bold to mention her dead uncle, and she sees surprise in her father’s looks, but he accepts her rebuke without making his own.

“You are kind in your honesty,” he says. “And I’ll speak plainly, too, as plainly as is my right. I am worried about Fingon. I am worried about how much of his soul he has devoted to this path in life. His aims are so noble—his heart so true. But not everyone is a friend, even within these walls, when flesh and blood are tested.”

“What are you saying?”

“All that I can, Aredhel.”

She ponders this, and does not like it—likes it all the less for not understanding it. “What, then,” she says, “Are you asking of me?”

He takes her hand in his. “Stand by him,” he murmurs. “When the time comes.”


End file.
